Chairoscuro
by practically everyone
Summary: Mary goes through some unforeseen complications, leaving John with Sherlock, of all people, to help him recuperate. Warning: Character death! I have not yet completed this, but I expect this to become a fully fledged fic sometime soon, so let me know what you think! This is my first crack at fanfiction, I would dearly love to hear what you have to say! Don't much care what it is.
1. Chapter 1

"_Mary_," John pleaded, grasping her hand with both of his more tightly as it slackened. Slowly, blearily, she shifted her gaze from a point on the ceiling, dropping her eyes until they fixed themselves onto John's face.

"_Mary, please, hold on."_ He said again, desperation seizing his body and constricting his throat as he willed her to do what she could not. She had tried so hard, gone through terrible pain, pain that John had not the slightest comprehension of, all in vain…

Mary's mouth twitched up in the barest ghost of a smile, and a look of pure love filled her tired eyes. A faint whisper of breath escaped from her lips, fogging the oxygen mask. Then her eyes glazed over and her hand fell limp.

The murmured voice of one of the nurses spoke into the sudden silence of the small room.

"I'll call it. Time of death, 3:42 AM."

There was not a single rustle. Then, at once, they quietly left the room, a nurse softly mentioning something about giving some privacy to John, whose tears had begun obscuring his vision, blurring everyone as they passed. The door glided shut, pulled by the last person, and closed with a click. With that sound, all the connections John had with the world outside broke, and nothing mattered but the woman that lay on the bed before him.

"_MARY!_" He screamed, ripping her name from his chest as he allowed his full agony to finally overwhelm him. He buried his face into her chest and sobbed, hot tears burning his face and dissolving into her hospital gown. He screamed her name over and over, until it no longer made sense, until his voice gave out and until nothing but tortured, wild, animal noises escaped him. There was nothing, nothing. Nothing but he and this woman in the whole room, in the whole hospital, in the whole world. Nothing. She had left him.

And she had taken their child with her.

John could not tell how long he stayed there, unmoved from his original position, dry sobs still racking his body after he had cried himself out. He dimly registered the door opening, heard footsteps crossing to him. A cautiously gentle hand was placed on this shoulder.

"John," said the soft voice. He knew that voice. The hand on his shoulder slowly, tenderly, drew him off her, back into the chair positioned right next to the head of the bed. John opened his eyes and looked at her motionless form, then dropped his gaze to his own hand, unable to bear the sight any longer, and he was dimly surprised to see that he still held her hand in his. Another voice spoke to him through his haze of misery. A female, a nurse. "Doctor Watson? John? You can't do any thing else for her. We did all we could. You have to let her go…" John looked at the pale hand he held and realized that there really was no more hope, no more point in wishing. He laid her arm over her upper belly, and a fresh wave of tears threatened to blur his vision once more. Before what little resolve he had left him, he reached over with trembling fingers and closed her eyes.

Then the tears spilled over, and he buried his face in his hands, and he let go of all of the hope left inside him, all of the excitement and fear and nervousness he had come here with. It was gone. It had left with Mary Watson.

When he finally, blearily, raised his head out of the sanctuary of his hands, he became aware of the presence still beside him. The hand was still on his shoulder, but it rested hesitantly, if a bit awkwardly. John lifted his head and blinked, trying to see the owner of the hand through puffy eyes. Sherlock stared down at him with a mixture of concern and alarm, studying him intently. He gently helped John stand and walked him slowly to the door. John looked back one more time, but the sight burned in his mind and he found himself turning abruptly away. Once they turned into the hallway, they paused, and Sherlock directed him into the chairs outside the room. Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then closed it, frowning. He did this a few times before stuttering out, "Where - do you want to go?" John dimly remembered something about Sherlock not doing well in these types of situations.

Then the question hit him. Where would he go? He could not go home. Absolutely not. At his house, the house he shared with Mary, there was the bed he slept on with Mary, the crib they had set up two weeks ago, just to be prepared, there was still a note lying on the kitchen counter from Mary to John reminding him to get the shopping and that she loved him. He could not face that empty house tonight. The very thought drew him upright, and made his breath catch in his throat as his loss hit him full force a third time, but he had no more tears to cry, and his sides heaved with sobs as he collapsed again, and this time, he leaned against Sherlock's shoulder as everyone dissipated around him.

By the time he was coherent again, Sherlock seemed to have made a decision for him, which was just as well, because John was heaving great shaky, breaths, unable to see or notice much around him, trying to get a grip on the situation but finding it impossible. Sherlock carefully stood him up again and was steering him out of the hospital, leading him into the cool London air, the familiar sounds of the city at night swirling in his ears. He supposed Sherlock hailed a cab, because next thing he was aware of, he was riding in a car, arms tucked into his sides, Sherlock speaking to him in low tones, not knowing or caring what he said, pain numbing his senses. John next registered the scent of the Baker street apartment, Sherlock yelling something at Mrs. Hudson, her surprised and irritated tones, then shocked muttering and a scurrying of china while John was then ushered onto the couch upstairs. A warm cup of tea was directed into his uncooperative hands, and there was a gentle suggestion that he at least try to drink it. John stared down at it, remembering that the hands holding the teacup held the hand of his wife not a few hours ago. Had it really been that long, he wondered? It seemed as if it were a dream, a nightmare, and now, after waking, it had never even happened, but the memory haunted him and he was now floating, somewhere in between hell and earth, and he might as well do something, anything, to get back to anyplace other than this horror land. John took a quivering sip of his tea, the liquid returning him, somewhat, to the physical world. It took him several tries to swallow, and it burned going down his raw throat. He realized, hazily, that he must be very dehydrated. Slowly, he finished his tea, sip by sip, and when he had finished with it, he was eventually coerced into a lying position, blankets draped over him. There was so much pain inside him that he didn't think he would ever fall asleep again, and even if he did, what good would it do anyway? He felt a hand on his arm, and he saw Sherlock watching him, a small crease between his eyes.

"I am sorry," he whispered.

A hard lump formed in John's throat as Sherlock turned and left, and it was not until he heard Sherlock disappear into his bedroom that he managed to choke back, "Me, too."


	2. Chapter 2

When John had texted him that Mary had gone into labor, Sherlock was unsurprised. He had seen the two only a few days before, he quickly deduced the arrival date. Therefore, he had been expecting the alert, and proceeded to the hospital, sweeping through the halls until he reached the small room of the maternity ward. John was already inside, and he looked in only briefly to let John know of his presence, and also to tell him that he would be remaining outside. Far too messy and tedious for him. He never had much interest or patience for 'the miracle of life.'

Many hours later, Sherlock was getting bored. He had already deduced the lives of the people waiting nervously around him outside other rooms (first time father, diabetic, married twice, pasta for dinner, and an over-possessive grandmother whose husband was cheating on her with a woman half his age, ect.) and now there was nothing to distract him from the increasingly shrill screams issuing from the wall behind him. There was another howl. Sherlock cocked his head. This one was different. Something was wrong. There was a lot that could go wrong in childbirth, and judging from the pitch and suddenness, something had. Sherlock wrenched open the door. "John!"

He noticed too late. The signs had been there, of course, if he could have just _recognized_ them, Mary would be alive, and John would be happy. Hemorrhage and stillbirth. Even Sherlock realized how horrible the situation was. John's reaction was nothing short of hysterics, and Sherlock was greatly disturbed to see him in such a state, clearly torn to pieces. John was usually so steady, so level, but, Sherlock knew, he was human. By now, Sherlock knew why John was reacting so strongly: (or perhaps appropriately?) sentiment and love. He had married her, after all, and had been very happy at the thought of being a father. Personally, a squalling infant unable to support itself that also consumed massive amounts of valuable attention easily put to better use elsewhere seemed like a perfectly undesirable thing. But John wanted one. He looked forward to having one. Sherlock was truly sorry for Mary's passing. She was so clever, strong, unusually tolerable, and so important to John.

Naturally, there were arrangements to be made. John was in hardly any condition to handle the calls, taking only the ones from his parents, Harry, and his closest friends personally. Sherlock handled the rest. He made plans for the funeral, adding details at John's interjections. The funeral was small, and private. John remained stiff, not walking among the attendants, just standing, looking rather lost, and talking only to those who spoke to him. Sherlock tried to keep close to him, realizing John's need for his presence; he looked around each time Sherlock was not in his immediate line of vision. John did his best not to cry, Sherlock supposed that this would not be a seemly display among his relatives and friends, who were already showering him with pity. Sherlock tried his best to not treat him the same way, and decidedly provided him with a sense of normalcy. He had even gone to Lestrade, in a rare moment of confusion, for advice. "Give him something to hang on to. Be nice to him, but don't smother him with condolences." Lestrade had paused then, eyeing him over. "But I don't think you'd be the one to do that anyhow. Just give him space. He will get over her eventually. But he needs time." Sherlock didn't have any idea of what to say to John, in any case. He was secretly delighted to be sharing 221 b. with John again. It had been far too boring without him. And empty. After Sherlock left, John had gotten on with his life. He had gotten on with his life, and Sherlock was on his own again. His times with John had been the best, and he was petrified to lose him to someone, to anyone else. He was panicked to learn that John would be married, and not live at Baker Street anymore. John would be leaving him. Sherlock could hardly bear the idea of the end of their era, their oneness. Once it was apparent that a baby was imminent, Sherlock knew that he essentially lost John for good. If he barely saw John when he was married, how often would he see him once John had a child to care for? He had stuffed all of John's remaining belongings into his old bedroom one day, not wanting to look at any of it. It had just reminded him of who had left him. He had allowed himself to hope, just once, briefly, that John might come back to him, one he found out who Mary really was. John had spent a few months at Baker Street, to Sherlock's silent elation. Sherlock wanted to spare John from any secrets concerning her. He deserved to know the truth, he reasoned. If John was to spend the rest of his life with her, he needed to know who he had chosen. In the end, he chose her again.

The only thing standing in the way of their happiness was Magnussen. As long as Magnussen could threaten Mary, he could threaten John. No one could manipulate him like that. It was simply unacceptable. John needed to be safe. So Mary had to be saved.

But despite all of his knowledge, his vast mind palace, he could not save her twice.


	3. Chapter 3

"I have to go back to get my things," John said, staring into his tea. Sunlight slanted through the windows, illuminating the dusty air. Sherlock rummaged in the kitchen behind him as John sat in his chair. He had been doing much more cooking in the past three weeks, albeit being able to cook only toast and eggs and getting takeout or Mrs. Hudson for the main meals. Sherlock stopped clattering about. "I can't go on just using whatever I left over here, it's not enough." He swallowed. "If I'm going to move back here, I need my things." Sherlock walked over to the sitting room and faced John, eyebrows drawn together. "Do you want me to come with you?" He asked. John sighed almost imperceptibly; he needed Sherlock to come with him, but he hadn't quite wanted to ask him. "Yes, Sherlock, I do," John said, turning his attention back to his tea.

John had been dreading this trip. He had been avoiding anything that reminded of Mary, which was difficult, because everything reminded him of Mary. And now he was going to their house, his first home after the fall. It was the first house he and Mary had bought and shared. The cab ride seemed like the longest of his life. Every second brought him closer to the inevitable, going back into their house and seeing her there, every memory coming to life before his eyes.

The cab rolled to a stop before the house-front. Ice flooded John's veins. He was barely aware of Sherlock turning his head toward him. "Are you ready?" His voice was unusually gentle. John tore his gaze away from the house, meeting Sherlock's eyes. They searched him, deducing, calculating, and looking for his emotions as they had often been doing during the past few weeks. John drew a shuddering breath. "Let's go." Something flickered in Sherlock's face, a fleeting expression of something John could only describe as tenderness, and then Sherlock was sweeping out the door of the cab, holding the door open and closing after John. The ice disappeared from John's veins to be replaced with a rapid heat, blood pounding in his ears. Walking up to this house was worse than attacking any enemy lines. He reached the door before Sherlock did, and opened it, and his heart left his chest to beat in his throat. John fixed his gaze to his shoes as he stepped inside.

He took another deep breath and looked up. Mary was everywhere. She was there, laughing on the stairs, lounging on the couch, cooking dinner at the stove, struggling to put her shoes on, making fun of him, laughing, yelling, crying, talking, and just being so alive. She swirled around John, seeping into his every orifice and driving out everything else. "Oh, God." His heart jumped into his mouth and he fell apart, leaning into Sherlock as he cried and it was like losing her for the first time all over again. His shaking sobs slowly subsided into dry gasps after a time, and John slowly became aware that Sherlock had put his arms around him gingerly. For a while he simply stayed there, appreciating the curious safety and novelty of the gesture, and trying to pull himself together enough to look around once more.

Afterwards, John could not really remember how exactly he managed to collect all his things, tears leaking out at the memory of certain times they had shared, Sherlock keeping him moving throughout the small house, collecting items that he had completely forgotten to pick up, placing his things in boxes, carrying them up the stairs where they lay stacked on the floor of their flat. John huffed, laying his hands on a box, and making like he was going to unpack it.

"What am I going to do, Sherlock? I can't get her out of my head." John looked at Sherlock, and their eyes locked together, held by John's desperate stare. "Everything I do, it's just - _her_. And…" He broke off. He felt helpless, and he gripped the box harder in order to remain in control. "What is left here for me?" John swayed a bit now, still firmly clasped to Sherlock's gaze. He saw Sherlock sag a little, and a fleeting look of desperation and fear passed from his eyes to John. John finally dropped his head down to the floor, staring hard at the box gripped tightly between his hands without really seeing it. He heard Sherlock's shoes scuff lightly on the carpet as Sherlock took a few steps closer, stopping barely two feet away from him.

"You still have me, John," his voice was raspy, somewhat constricted. John looked sideways at him, pressing his lips together in a line. For the first time in weeks, he realized he didn't know how any of this could be impacting Sherlock. He didn't give Sherlock's recent actions much thought, just vague, brief moments of appreciation that he didn't fully take time to recognize or mention to him. Without Sherlock, he realized, it would have taken him a lot longer to get out of the hospital in the first place, even longer to end up back at Baker Street, he didn't even want to consider how he would have handled the funeral, and who knows how long it would have taken him to work up the courage to visit their house again. Sherlock had propped him up through all of it, a surprisingly steady sense of normalcy, if normal is a word that can be applied to Sherlock Holmes. John looked at Sherlock, and fully wondered at him. He remembered how he could not bear going back into Baker Street after the fall, instead having Mrs. Husdon collect his things for him, knowing for certain that the one thing he could not do was to walk into that flat. It was two years before he could go in again, once he thought he had moved on, and let Sherlock and the life they had together go. It was incredible, really, that with Sherlock with him he was able to find the strength to enter their house again. John felt his gaze soften as he regarded Sherlock in a fresh light.

"Yes, yes, Sherlock, I still have you."

They unpacked the boxes in relative quiet, Sherlock remembering where each item used to go around the flat at taking great care to replace it there. After a few hours, John had to agree that the place was finally looking like home again. A few boxes still lay upstairs in his bedroom, but other than that, it was practically back to the way it always was. John surveyed his room, drinking it in. He had obviously missed this life, he knew it. The heart-pumping chases, the touch-and-go skirmishes, being held at gunpoint, or holding someone else at gunpoint, it was all what he lived for. He went stir-crazy sometimes, had little outbursts when he lived in the suburbs because he simply couldn't handle it. John sat down on the bed and put his face in his hands, though not out of sorrow. God, he missed her, he loved her and missed her and he knew he always would. He missed sharing his life with her. But that was no longer an option. John knew he had to be real about the situation. He breathed deep, letting the air out slowly. _You have to move on. Let them go. Life with Sherlock…it will be fine. It brought you back after the war and it will help you again. You've missed this and him, better not deny it. Mary might not be around but you have to get on with your life…or it will get on without you. She would not want you to be stuck feeling sorry all the time. I have to move on…_

"John! There's a bit of a fire and I acquire your assistance! John!" Sherlock yelped from the kitchen. John lifted his head and smiled a bit in spite of himself.

"What have you done now?"


End file.
